


Yellow Days

by LoxleyAndBagell



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Domesticity, F/M, M/M, Originally Posted on Tumblr, PruCan Week 2016, Time Travel, also there's a bit in wwI, baby gilbert!, the violence pertains to matt getting shot by an arrow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-07
Updated: 2017-01-07
Packaged: 2018-09-15 14:20:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9238793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoxleyAndBagell/pseuds/LoxleyAndBagell
Summary: A little holiday-themed time-travel for you all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This work was originally posted on my tumblr, http://distracting-shiny.tumblr.com/post/151196154797/prucan-week-fic
> 
> This fic follows my headcanon for the relationship between Prussia and Brandenburg. This also follows my headcanon/maaaaaaajor OC-ing for Brandenburg. 
> 
> The title comes from the Frank Sinatra song, "Yellow Days." It's quite pretty and I like it a lot.

_I remember when the sunlight had a special kind of brightness  
And laughter held a lover's kind of lightness, yellow days, yellow days._

Matt grimaced himself awake, his hand flopping onto the side-table’s surface, searching for his phone. Turning on the lamp, he answered the call. “Ambassadeur Ultime.”

 

There was a suppressed snicker from the other end of the line before the response. “Good morning, Mister Williams, this is your wake-up call.”

 

Matt’s yawn turned into a whine as he stretched, eyes tightly shut against the sudden glaring light. “Morning, Gilbert. What time is it?”

 

“Where I am, or where you are?”

 

“Both. Either.”

 

Gilbert hummed. “The local time in Berlin is eight-thirty in the morning, and it’s seven-thirty in London. I know because you told me to call you at that time. It must be about two-thirty in Ottawa, so find yourself some coffee and some boundaries before you get to work.”

 

Matt sat himself up, blinking carefully as he put his glasses in place with one hand. “Can’t be around people yet. Lemme practice on you a while first. How long you been up?”

 

Gilbert laughed again. “Ooh, I’ve been demoted to practice-person.”

 

“You know what I mean.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, take it easy. Er, let me just… okay, it’s going to rain here today. As for where you are, I need to look that up.”

 

Matt sat on the edge of the bed, stretching his shoulders as much as he could, still sore from the flight. “It stormed here sometime in the wee small hours. I’ll bet you got our bad weather.”

 

“Gee, thanks.”

 

“Anytime. When did you get up? I didn’t drag you out of bed for this, did I?”

 

“Nah, I’m just starting my second cup of coffee. Now, go have your first.”

 

Matt supposed he ought to have put on trousers before opening the curtains and looking at the skyline, but then, it was too early in the morning for boundaries. “If it’s any consolation to you, it looks like rain again today.”

 

“No duh. Now go and do your thing. Call if you’re bored.”

 

“Trousers, first.”

 

“I’m hanging up, now.”

 

 

 

There were multiple points in the day when Matt would have loved to call Gilbert, but social and professional code forbade him from walking out of Royal Conventions. He did manage a couple texts over breaks, mostly selfies with Bruce as Robbie, Myrrdin, and Kathleen were sticking to themselves. Matt supposed it was only fair; he wasn’t as intimately effected by the decision to Separate.

 

He didn’t get much of a chance to exchange niceties with Elizabeth, but Kate had been able to come and give him an update on George and Charlotte, and that had been nice. William was minding them for her that day, and she lamented that her day off was to sit in on business like this.

 

“If you want,” said Matt, “I’d happily be an accomplice in playing hooky. Of course, my idea of fun would be skyping someone, so…”

 

Kate had laughed at that. “There’s a good fryer not too far from here; we could taunt them with our ill-gotten gains over the camera.”

 

“We haven’t got our disguises,” said Elizabeth, approaching with Arthur on her arm. “Might be a bit tricky.”

 

Bruce held his hands up, declining. “If we’re playing hooky so Matt can skype with his boyfriend, I’m out.”

 

“How nice,” Kate said the same moment Elizabeth said, “Do tell.”

 

Matt laughed helplessly, trying not to sound too defensive as he protested, “He’s not my boyfriend or whatever.”

 

Bruce only grinned, delighted. “I wasn’t meaning anybody. Who are you talking about?”

 

“The plot thickens,” murmured Elizabeth.

 

Matt rolled his eyes. “It’s not a huge scandal; Bruce, you know Gilbert.”

 

“You’re dating Gilbert?”

 

“No! He—“ Matt tried for calmer. “I’m used to Francois giving me hell about being friends with him.”

 

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Because you play hooky to skype him?”

 

Matt was ready to protest before Kate gracefully cut in. “Come on, lay off him.”

 

She reached into her pocket and dug out her wallet, and carefully thumbed through the notes and bills within, occasionally looking over her shoulder and counting under her breath, before handing it over to Matt with the orders, “Go get as many doughnuts as possible. Around the corner to the right, with the white awning. Please.”

 

Matt blinked, impressed, before being shooed out by Elizabeth. He nearly tripped on his own heels on his way out the door when she called behind him, “Tell your sweetie Hello for us.”

 

 

 

That was about the point where it all went to hell.

 

 

 

Matt had only just crossed the threshold when he saw the first cloud illuminated by lightning. He waited for nearly a minute before the lowest rumble of thunder was heard, then stepped out into the softly-misting rain.

 

At the fryer’s, there was a small crowd seated around a television, silent and wide-eyed in horror at the news report—a tornado in the south was tearing up harbors, and the whole island was being engulfed in an enormous storm. There was no warning, no cause, for this sudden onslaught.

 

Matt had seen a lot of shit. Not as much as some, but more than most usual people got to see. Freak storms were kind of new for him. There used to be a time when he was brand-new to this, just a little thing, and every storm was a freak. Then, his reaction was to run and find the people who cared for him.

 

It was just the same in the fryer’s. He turned tail and ran back down the street to where Arthur would be.

 

The rain was now beating down on him, sharp as nails, and the winds were strong enough he felt the need to struggle against them. He squinted uselessly in the quick-coming darkness, worsening after a magnificent crash killed the power, offing all the shop lights.

 

The noise turned Matt’s stomach and he nearly buckled over on the sidewalk. Fortunately, this time Arthur was waiting for him at the other end, there was no need to shoot or claw or scream his way through this. Just run.

 

The wind was picking up again, and the lightning would periodically show the way for him, but this time the thunder was mere seconds following, and every strike would set his blood running faster and his knees a little weaker.

 

_“Matt!”_

Arthur was a dim outline in this weather, but his hoarse bellow carried like a horn. He was sprinting towards Matt, and the closer he got the clearer it was he had no raincoat or umbrella to share. Just fear and a purpose.

 

Arthur was coming. Arthur was going to get Matt away. Matt was going to be safe and somewhere dry soon and would pretend to laugh at Arthur’s fussing but would be happier for it than he could think of right now.

 

All he had to do was run.

 

Then Arthur stopped.

 

 _“Mattie, wait!”_ he bellowed. _“Jump!“_

 

Matt was too slow when the lightning touched down on the wet pavement.

 

 

 

The next time Matt opened his eyes, he was flat on his back in a meadow with a dog growling in his face, and that was the end of “Matt” for a bit.

 

His scream quickly became a growl as his body turned itself up on its knees. The dog flinched back, but was soon baring its teeth and making threatening darts at him.

 

He was prepared to slam himself down and roar and claw and fight, but a voice called out, _“Ava!”_ sending the dog away to the edge of the meadow where a boy with white hair and old-fashioned clothes was aiming an arrow that hit Matt in the shoulder.

 

 

 

 

Being knocked on his back by a projectile weapon embedded in his body did a good job of shutting Matt up. He lay there, too stunned to panic, staring up at the sky numbly.

 

He lay there, undisturbed in the dusk, until he noticed stars in the sky. Distantly, he realized he was cold, and that he really ought to do something about that pesky projectile in his shoulder. Pulling it out wouldn’t do; he had nothing to staunch the bleeding, or clean up with. He could at least make things a little more manageable by snapping some of the shaft. It would be a real pity to damage the arrow, but it did hurt a bit, and comfort trumped aesthetics in this sort of situation.

 

Even snapping the shaft hurt like a motherfucker, and he grunted with the effort. Peering over the grass, he could see the comfortable farmhouse the shooter had retreated to. His head felt too foggy to determine which era it belonged to, but he could tell that all the lights were out. A cellar door sat nestled among an overgrown evergreen bush. In his current condition, he could crawl there in six minutes, not accounting for breaks.

 

With breaks, it took about ten minutes, with another ten gasping atop the cellar door. Fortunately, it was open, and he swung his legs to the steps with relative ease. Sitting at the top of the stone stairs, he felt for some light, finding an oil lamp. When the room was illuminated in a golden glow, he took the lamp from where it hung, shut the door over his head, and scooted down the stairs on his seat.

 

It looked like a junk heap. Chairs stacked haphazardly atop trunks, shelves stuffed with lamps and wooden boxes, tables in corners on their sides, oblong sofas covered in muslin, rolled up rugs, and if there was a bare spot on the floor, a birdcage or painted tchotchke covered it.

 

Matt had to stop at the bottom of the stone stairs to breathe and see if there appeared to be any way into the house from here. At the other side of the room was a staircase, six yards and a sea of nonsense away.

 

While he waited for his head to clear, he observed the pile closest to him, flinching when he saw it was a pile of weaponry—cutlasses, boarding pikes, and a neat little axe. To the other side was a pile of porcelain. Because why not.

 

Since he was feeling a little bit more like himself, he found it in him to admire the workmanship on the cutlasses. He recognized the style from when he was quite young, but these were kept in rather good condition, almost as if they had been made only a few years ago. The dishes looked like the sort Arthur carefully hid away, too; too precious at their age for everyday use. Yet here they were in the cellar, not on display with all their painted frills. They didn’t look very chipped; the worst Mat could say was that they were in need of a good dusting.

 

Once those observations settled in, something cold crept down his spine.

 

From a superficial glance, it certainly looked like the most offensive of the tchotchkes were remorselessly baroque. Even the plainest of the furniture possessed the sumptuous slopes of the era’s style. Yet, none of the pieces seemed to be in any state of disrepair.

 

Maybe it was a Baroque enthusiast. A really violent Baroque enthusiast.

 

Matt’s journey to the stairs was slowed by weariness and a sick interest in what surrounded him-- The wooden bedroom set painted clean white with vivid grapevines and red campion. The wooden mesh dress dummy in front of the mountain of collapsed farthingales. The needless embellishments and gilding on every other trunk and box in the room.

 

There was one round wicker basket that caught Matt’s eye, by virtue of its plainness. Inside was torn rags of linen and muslin and the occasional scrap of embroidered velvet. Matt hummed in satisfaction and kept it under his arm; he’d certainly have use of it.

 

Muslin was slipping off a framed picture, tilted on its side against a corner. Under pretense of preservation, Matt crept over to it. All it took was a ginger little tug before the muslin slipped off of the portrait.

 

The colors were muted, for the most part, all the better to showcase the two people portrayed and their bright clothes. They were young, a man and a woman—no, no, the roundness of their cheeks and the wideness of their eyes marked them closer to a boy and a girl.

 

She had wheat colored curls styled into bunches framing her rosy face, and was squeezed into a conical red bodice with enormous sleeves. She looked laden with jewels, but her hand was settled at the plain cross pendant at her throat. Her face was snubby, somewhat bullish, but with brilliant wide eyes that seemed to glow in the dim light, the liquid darkness of the sea.

 

The boy had an unfortunate wig on his head of brilliant white curls, nearly as white as the colossal ruffs at his throat and sleeves. A similar cross sat at his throat. He stood behind the woman where she sat, obviously a staged pose, both protective and peacock-y. His eyes were impossible to determine in the dark, but the closer Matt brought the lantern to study his features, the more obvious it became that it was the same boy who had shot him.

 

Matt knew who it was before the lantern showed him the boy’s eyes were as red as the girl’s dress.

 

“Well,” he breathed. “Who’s your friend, Gilbert?”

 

 

 

Matt breathed a sigh of relief when the stairs led to the kitchen. Taking a moment to rest, he checked the layout—rushes on the stone floor, A barrel of apples, a long wooden table piled with pots and pans and dishes, shelves with haphazard crockery, and a massive hearth with a kettle and cauldron.

 

Good. Familiar, if nothing else.

 

Matt gingerly tapped the outside of the kettle where it hung over the now-cool fireplace. It was still warm. Taking the lid off it, he selected the longest of the rags and kept them close to him and dumped in the shorter ones, soaking them in the water, bracing himself for what came next.

 

Finding a clean wooden spoon to bite down on, he tried to tell himself it would be over quicker than he’d think. He’d done this before so many times it was routine; he was lucky it was an arrow, it would make things so much easier.

 

 _One._ Out came the arrow in a screaming drag, thrown to the floor.

 

 _Two._ Off came the jacket and dress shirt and undershirt, popping buttons and tearing fabric.

 

 _Three._ Pressing the rags to the wound, then wrapping the longer ones around his body to hold them, biting the spoon harder to distract from his screaming arm as it twisted and lifted to painful angles.

 

Stunned, he collapsed into a chair. He needed something to eat before he slept. The skin would knit itself together again over the course of a night, but he hadn’t eaten since breakfast, and—

 

Nope. No, he wasn’t going to think about where he was before, that would only give him an ulcer at this rate.

 

He was going to have an apple, get his shirt back on, then get some sleep, then panic tomorrow when he was more able-bodied.

 

 

 

Between the panic, the cold floor, and the pain, any sleep Matt got was fitful. Sometime around dawn, he gave up and sat up, testing his shoulder. All things considered, it was healing well; not as quickly as he was used to, but lifting his arm no longer burned white-hot. He reckoned it must have scabbed over fairly well at this point, but was loathe to check it just yet.

 

He didn’t get to wonder too long, because a cock crowed outside.

 

He went very still, listening for any footsteps at all.

 

A minute later, the cock crowed again, and all was silent still. When it crowed a third time, Matt’s curiosity got the better of him and he gingerly moved himself upright.

 

There was a coop several meters away from the house, adjacent to a barn. Looking downhill, Matt could see the trail in the meadow he had left behind. The colorful rooster perched obliviously atop the coop, and three black hens stopped their pecking to gamely amble over to Matt.

 

“Good morning,” he said hoarsely. “Breakfast time?”

 

One of the hens bobbed her way to the yard again, looking expectantly at the barn.

 

Wherever he was, whenever it was, birds still needed feeding, and so did he. Matt could do this.

 

Matt rolled up his sleeves, grumbling, “I reckon so.”

 

 

 

It wasn’t until Matt was back inside, finishing cooking the porridge and getting ready to set dough aside to let it rise for bread later that he got to meet his host.

 

Matt could hear him moving upstairs, and decided all the other man needed was ten seconds to decide what to do about the intruder in the house. He was good like that. They all were.

 

It was going to be a civil confrontation, Matt had decided. He would be the bigger person, the polite one with breakfast coming. There was enough for everybody to have. He had fed the animals, for god’s sake.

 

Just in case, he set one knife aside, close to the cast-iron pan.

 

It took all of six minutes, time he measured between taking the porridge off the heat, stirring it up, and spooning it into two bowls.

 

The other man was walking down the corridor to the kitchen as Matt reached for the honey.

 

He was drawing a sword when Matt took it down.

 

“Don’t move.”

 

Matt obliged, remaining silent. The voice was cold.

 

“Stand as you are, but show your hands.”

 

They went up. The voice was so cold, but so well-known.

 

“Do you speak Geman?”

 

Matt was glad for his back being turned; he didn’t know what would happen if his smile could be seen.

 

That voice had taught him the finer points of the language.

 

“Yes. Not as well as you, but yes.”

 

Footsteps came closer behind him. “I shot you.”

 

Matt closed his eyes. “You missed,” he lied.

 

There was a _flick_ by his ear, and he flinched at the metallic glint from the saber. “Turn around. Slowly.”

 

He opened his eyes and did so.

 

He looked more like Gilbet than the portrait, and Matt had to wonder if that was due to artistic license or trauma. The long nose, the square jaw, the sunken eyes were all there; he stood with his shoulders back and chest puffed out proudly, just the same. He was broader than the Gilbert Mat knew, his shoulders stronger and back straighter.

 

Here was Gilbert the boy; face and form younger than Matt’s, but holding to an old commander’s standard.

 

His face was carefully blank as he surveyed Matt, and Matt returned the favor, though he was dying to laugh out loud.

 

“You broke into my house,” said Gilbert.

 

Matt failed to swallow his retort in time. “You left your cellar door unlocked.”

 

Gilbert only looked faintly annoyed. “I _did_ think I shot you.”

 

“You didn’t finish the job.”

 

“You didn’t move, so I assumed you’d bleed out and I could get the shaft in the morning.”

 

Matt raised a brow, skeptical. Gilbert had never been so careless, as long as he’d known him.

 

Gilbert shook his head, aggravated. “You were going to fight my dog; I have some self-preservation instincts.”

 

“They’re laudable,” Matt reassured him. Gilbert was still young, after all. “For what it’s worth, I’m very grateful you didn’t kill me.”

 

“So you broke into my house,” Gilbert concluded, waving his free hand, _so we’re back to square one._

Matt had to sigh, accepting. “Yes, so I broke in. But I made porridge. All the better to entreat you for your help.”

 

That gave Gilbert pause. “My help.”

 

Matt nodded. “Yes. Please. I think I’ll only need an address, but you’d know better than I.”

 

Gilbert gave him a hard, studying look before he sighed and lowered his saber. “I need to feed the chickens.”

 

Well, that was encouraging. “I fed them earlier, about an hour ago. Was that all right?”

 

He got a look of surprise in response. It was a good look on young Gilbert. “Yes. But there’s also Kuno—“

 

“The horse?” Matt interrupted. “Got him, too. Should he be let out? He seemed to expect to be.”

 

Astonished, Gilbert’s hands slowly went to his hips, flinching when he felt the unsheathed saber tap his side. Matt couldn’t hold back a delighted giggle at that, which only made Gilbert glare at him self-consciously.

 

“Fine,” he said, leaning the saber against the wall. “I could use breakfast.”

 

 

 

 

Gilbert choked on his oatmeal. _“When?”_

Matt threw him a cloth, repeating, “The twenty-first century.”

 

“You know me then?”

 

“Yes,” Matt admitted. “We’re friends, then.”

 

Wiping his mouth, Gilbert huffed disbelievingly. “Incredible. How am I meant to bring you back? Look at those spectacles; this is the eighteenth century and we can’t make glasses like that, hell, we can’t make _glass_ like that. How am I meant to get you home?”

 

Matt felt his stomach lurch. “When?”

 

“The eighteenth century, November of 1703… what are you doing?”

 

“Quiet,” said Matt, “I’m calculating.” Then, “Queen Anne’s in England?”

 

“Yes, I think?”

 

“Windsor Palace?”

 

Gilbert crossed his arms. “How should I know?”

 

“Because you’re the only person I know of here to might know.”

 

Rubbing his temples, Gilbert sighed, “I honestly don’t know. Why, is her family still around in the… god, the twenty-first century?”

 

Matt couldn’t do anything but laugh. “I couldn’t say. But I’m not a member of the royal family. If the monarch of… England?”

 

“And Ireland and Scotland,” Gilbert tacked on.

 

“Right, and them. So, if Queen’s at Windsor, that means Arthur must, right?”

 

Gilbert went quite still at that. “Arthur?”

 

Matt nodded. “Arthur Kirkland. He’s one of you. He introduced us.”

 

That didn’t settle Gilbert. If anything, his cheeks dusted palest pink. “Did he now?”

 

“Mm-hm.” Matt got caught giggling again.

 

In the Great War, he’d served alongside Arthur, who had been the one to brusquely order Matt to “Watch my back, Piffker’s crawling this way.”

 

“A what now?” Matt had asked, loading up.

 

Arthur hurled a grenade away in the opposite direction where Matt set to aim. “Something I heard Austria calling Prussia, once. He thinks he’s being sneaky, just shoot to scare.”

 

Matt had only gotten a brief look at the man in the spiked helmet who was getting mud in his white whiskers before he aimed for the shoulder and struck off an epaulet.

 

He rolled off balance and Matt fired some bullets into the ground around him, keeping him unbalanced and afraid until he was pulled back and away by his own troops. As he was dragged to safety, he had stared dumbly at Matt before roaring something unintelligible at him, drowned out by the cannon-fire.

 

Remembering, Matt was somewhat horrified by his own laughter.

 

They had shot each other. The first time they met the other, they had shot at them. And if that wasn’t a sign, Matt didn’t know what was.

 

“What’s so funny?” asked the Gilbert in front of Matt in 1703.

 

Matt rubbed his jaw. “Nothing,” he said. “Not a damn thing.”

 

 

 

The letter to Arthur was sent without a hitch, and Gilbert used his own seal to promise swiftest possible delivery.

 

“It may take a couple of months,” Gilbert admitted, “but it’s better than most have it.”

 

Matt put himself to work cleaning the kitchen while Gilbert checked on Kuno, pausing only to check in the root cellar for something to make for lunch. There were some pickled things and some cured meats, but not many vegetables. Matt wasn’t terribly impressed, but felt a little better when he found the eggs and cheese.

 

When Gilbert returned from tending to Kuno, Matt had the toppings for croque monsieurs, if not the right fillings.

 

“Well, have you got any ideas or suggestions where I should go?” Matt asked. “Preferably somewhere nearby, so I can know when Arthur’s response comes? I won’t impose on you. I’ve done more than enough, what with the breaking-and-entering.”

 

That made Gilbert shrug. “I’m not too sure. I can’t imagine you’d feel terribly safe with somebody you don’t know in such a strange time. We wouldn’t have a good time of it if we kept on insisting that you were from so far in the future.”

 

Matt wiped up some cheese with his bread. “Well, you think about it and tell me how I can make myself useful today. If I’m here until tonight, I can take the kitchen to sleep in.”

 

Gilbert snorted. “That’s not going to happen.”

 

 _Well,_ Matt sighed internally, _he’s the host, after all._

That afternoon, Matt spent his day between cleaning the dishes and helping Gilbert patch a hole in the coop’s roof. The kitchen had been a two-fold job, between cleaning and realizing with some sick fascination that there was no discernable order to any of the bric-a-brac in the kitchen, thus demanding an impromptu organizing session based on superficial observation and supposed archeology of the drawers and shelves.

 

Dinner was a stew that he served at a clean and set table on cleaner-than-before dishes. Gilbert had come in with water only to see him at the stove. He insisted that Matt didn’t need to do that, he’d already done one meal.

 

“I figure this way, there’ll be food first thing when you’re done,” Matt had reasoned. “And I can let it alone at a moment’s notice to finish up in here, or come out if you call me. Besides, it’s not as if I’ll be any help re-shingling that roof, it’s barely big enough for you up there.”

 

Now, Gilbert looked at Matt as if realizing the genius of this plan for the first time when he came in red and tired to a meal that was just finished. Matt’s arm was getting sore again, but he felt too smug to really care about it.

 

“So, I’ve thought about it,” said Gilbert, “and you’re staying here.”

 

That took Matt by surprise. “I am?”

 

Gilbert dug back into his stew, trying to feign disinterest. “Yes. For the reasons I said before—“

 

“If you’re worried about others finding out who you are,” Matt interrupted, “your secret is safe with me. If it is a secret. I’m not too sure what the protocal is here.”

 

He was waved off. “No, I keep it quiet. And I believe you. But I also appreciate how much you’ve done to help me today.”

 

Gilbert began to look sheepish. It was adorable.

 

“To be frank,” he said, “things have been difficult around here. I’ve never had regular staff in the house. I used to have… I thought I could continue as I was, but I would certainly appreciate another person around to help keep things running.”

 

Matt had to repress his immediate desire to ask about just what kind of help Gilbert used to have. Instead, he asked, “What would you need me to do, regularly?”

 

Recovering quickly from surprise, Gilbert answered, “Mostly what you did today. I do appreciate you taking care of the animals this morning, but I can handle them. I can show you how to care for them, and we could do a rotation of who’s in the kitchen and who’s out in the day. Harvest has come and gone, which is when I really would have needed you.”

 

“Sorry,” Matt muttered instinctively.

 

Gilbert looked confused, but them something like a smile twisted at the corner of his mouth. Matt shifted, a little embarrassed.

 

“Anyway,” Gilbert continued, ducking his head and hiding his smile. “I also need a lot of help organizing, clearing some things away. I mostly have been putting things away in—“

 

“—the cellar,” Matt finished with him, under his breath.

 

And just like that, the easy atmosphere was fizzled away.

 

His face shuttered, Gilbert straightened in his chair, his face neutral and his eyes sharp with something like fear. Matt sat back in his own chair, careful to keep his face open and his arms relaxed when he crossed them loosely.

 

“I told you,” he said, quietly, “that’s how I came in.”

 

Gilbert nodded twice, quickly. “I remember.”

 

There was a painfully awkward silence before Matt said “Who was,” the same instant Gilbert said, “My partner.”

 

Matt’s mouth closed with a comically abrupt stop. Gilbert’s gaze was on his bowl as he continued, voice cool. “My partner, Brandenburg. She was dissolved a few years ago. She used to live here, too.”

 

Matt bit back all his questions in favor of nodding casually and saying, “All right.” Then, “Thank you for telling me. Now, what needs to be done tomorrow?”

 

Gilbert seemed relieved to leave the subject behind.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_November 30_

_My friends—_

_My apologies for being remiss in writing to you. These past few months have been difficult with harvest in addition to the other matters around the house. Fortunately, I had enough to hire help in the fall. Now, I find myself with additional help. I know not how long this luck will stay with me, and to be frank, it is the strangest good fortune I’ve ever come across._

_Earlier this week, a man appeared in the meadow behind the house. He must be a soldier of some ferocity; he hardly blanched when Ava approached him and even snarled back at her. He claims I missed when I fired at him, but I am not so ready to dismiss my not-inconsiderable skills._

_The following morning, I found he had fed the chickens and Kuno and was setting up to feed me, as well. He proved himself to be a capable and pleasant fellow, and has since taken up residence with me. As well as feeding us, he berates me for how out-of-order the house is and has been putting things back into order. He helps me with the animals and outdoor work whenever I call for it, and he is the best kind of handyman._

_His history is something of a mystery—he says he is from a later time, and a tangle with Arthur is what sent him here to our time. It sounds peculiar, to say the least, but I am inclined to believe him. Based on what I hear of Arthur, it sounds like the sort of trick he could pull off._

_However he came here, I am grateful for his help. I only feel poorly that he hasn’t got much in the way of clothes, and is wearing mine. He is taller and thinner than I, so the effect is something to see. Next time I go into town, he’ll come with me to the seamstress and tailor to get him things that fit. He’ll be needing them very soon._

_Your friend, etc.,_

_Gilbert_

_December 20_

 

Gilbert looked the envelope over as he pushed the door open lazily with his shoulder. “Matz?”

 

“What?” was the answering call from upstairs.

 

Gilbert set the package under his arm upon the table. “You know Feliks and Toris, yes?”

 

He got a laugh in response. “Yes. They’re around in my time, too. Why? What is it?”

 

“There’s a letter from them.”

 

“I didn’t write them.”

 

“No, I did, when you showed up. Where are you?”

 

“Coming, you impatient little…”

 

He came down the stairs with Ava on his heels. Matz’s sleeves were rolled up, in spite of the cold, and his hair tied back with a red rag. Since Gilbert had written the letter, his clothes had been finished, so he no longer had need for clothes made for a squat little fellow like Gilbert.

 

(Gilbert was a little offended that there was no longer anything that could possibly compensate for such height, or such long legs, or cheekbones, or… well, that was neither here nor there.)

 

“Your coat arrived,” he explained, pointing to the parcel.

 

Matz grinned, pulling it open. “Wonderful. Read while I try it on?”

 

Gilbert opened the envelope, sitting down, and obliged, translating Toris’ scratchy penmanship:

_Gilbert!_

_We are delighted to hear your news! Feliks has been inconsolably proud, and has found a way to credit himself for your turn in fortunes. My greatest fear is that he will have convinced himself that his nagging is effective, and will use it on me more than in the past._

Matz laughed. “Poor Toris.”

 

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it. Wait, wait, he’s going to talk about you, now.”

 

 

_Neither of us quite know what to make of your visitor._

 

“I’m wounded.”

 

 

_We’re sure you’re not doing him a justice in your description._

“Ha!”

 

Gilbert rolled his eyes, then grimaced as he glanced over the next paragraph. Of course, Matz noticed.

 

“What is it? Are they all right?”

 

That made Gilbert laugh at him a little. “They’re around in your time, they’re right as rain. It’s just,” he sobered, wrinkling his nose, “they’re on me again to sell the farm and relocate to Berlin.”

 

Matz hummed noncommittally at that. A little offended, Gilbert looked up from the letter to scold him, but stopped when he saw Matt in the coat. It fit him well, good and heavy stuff, the collar framing his hair and face when he turned it up like he was doing just now, and—

 

“You wouldn’t be upset if I sold the farm?” he asked, instead. His voice was a little quieter than he initially meant, but Matz would get his meaning.

 

That gave Matz pause. He sat himself down in the chair next to Gilbert, sitting so his body slouched toward the other’s.

 

“Of course I’d be sad,” he said, “but not as sad as you. Regardless of how I feel, I’d rely on you to make the decision, and then support you in it.”

 

Gilbert felt himself smile a little. “The chickens would miss me. And you.”

 

Matz snorted and lightly kicked Gilbert’s chair. “Keep reading.”

 

“Fine, fine. Er… oh, here we go:”

 

 

_Feliks, for his part, thinks you’d do very well to have some company, or at least a break from country life. Don’t be fooled; he only wants to meet your guest. I can hardly blame him. Normally, we’d both insist on your company for Christmas, but given how well that’s gone historically, we’ll try a different approach._

“Should I be afraid?”

 

Gilbert worried his lip. “I am. If they suggest anything like they did four years ago—oh my god.”

 

“What?”

 

 

_By the time you receive this letter, Feliks and I will be on our way to you. He says not to worry; we’re bringing Christmas dinner. If our timing is right, we received your letter on the tenth, and plan to be out in the next two days, so if all goes well, we shall arrive with our retinue on Christmas Eve._

Matz hissed a curse as he shot to his feet. “Can they _do_ that?”

 

“They often do,” Gilbert tried to say as Matz ran up the stairs. With a huff, he followed. “All they do is bring a ridiculous amount of food and some extra hands to take care of the animals and the house. The worst of it is that I need to dress a little nicer on the regular.”

 

Matz was not eased in the slightest. “Oh sure, but it means laundry day has been pushed up… today, today is now laundry day. Congratulations. How many will they bring? How many can we accommodate? How much more fucking sweeping do I need to do?”

 

Gilbert grabbed his sleeve, stopping him. “Matz. Hey. Matz. Are you going to listen to me, or not?”

 

It took Matz a little time to get his breathing back under control, but when he was calmer, he said, “You’ve done this before. Tell me what happens.”

 

 

They laundered all the sheets in two days, during which they succeed in sweeping the floors. They lived on what cakes Matz threw together to fry in the pan or the stew Gilbert threw together that lasted three days’ worth of dinners and suppers. Matz was relieved that visits from Feliks and Toris meant food they brought themselves, prepared by their own staff.

 

“They’re fairy god-parents,” Matz had said, laughing as he dusted. Then, “Which rooms will they be taking? I feel like I ought to make biscuits or something for them and leave them on their bedsides.”

 

Gilbert went very still at that. He hadn’t considered what sorts of things had changed; Matz and he had spent so many days—every day—working that Gilbert hadn’t found time for small-talk. Besides, Matz hadn’t seemed very open to discussing the future, which seemed wise enough.

 

Well, it was common knowledge these days. Maybe Matz didn’t know how long it had been, or when it started. “They’re married, so they share.”

 

Matz went _“oooh”_ at that, realizing. “That’s right! I didn’t know if they were at this time, or what.”

 

“Oh yes,” Gilbert sighed, feigning annoyance. “Very much so.”

 

Matz laughed at him. “Are they terrible?”

 

“Awful.”

 

“How long have they been together?”

 

Gilbert hummed. “Two hundred years? Somewhere in that range.”

 

Matz whistled. “Wow.”

 

“Yeah. They’ll probably be buried together after outliving us.”

 

Matz’s smile got wistful at that. “You think?”

 

“Hope so. I wouldn’t mind it, too much.”

 

They worked in quiet a little longer, Matz dusting while Gilbert swept. A noise outside sent Matz out, murmuring that he was going to feed the birds. As soon as the door shut, Gilbert set the broom down and looked out to the yard where the birds were swarming Matz.

 

He looked ridiculous, tall and whip-thin like a scarecrow. Gilbert couldn’t place him as a relation of Arthur’s; if anything, Matz had the ornamental beauty that ran in Francois’ line.

 

But he moved and worked like he belonged here. He looked at Gilbert like he wanted to be here.

 

He fit here.

 

So when Matz came back in and looked at Gilbert like it wasn’t strange for him to have been watching, with only concern and warmth in his eyes, it felt natural for Gilbert to say, “Hilda and I decided if they could make it, we could, too, and now she’s dead.”

 

Somehow, Matz seemed to know what Gilbert meant by that, and his eyes went wide before he stepped close to hold Gilbert.

 

 

 

The night before Christmas Eve, before they expected their guests, Gilbert opened a bottle of wine he’d frittered away. He and Matz decided against trying to out-drink one another, but Gilbert had a feeling they’d be evenly-matched, anyhow. Besides, it was nice to laze in front of the fire with a drink and not be working towards anything, even getting drunk.

 

They got there, anyway.

 

“I want to tell you something,” Matz slurred, grinning like he was about to tell a marvelous joke. “It’s about my time. Can I tell you, or do you want to wait?”

 

Gilbert had never known a drunk Matz before. It was charming.

 

“Will you answer a question I have after?”

 

Matz nodded, as if this was a fair exchange. “Of course.”

 

“Then tell me.”

 

Leaning in conspiratorially, Matz said in a hushed voice, “In my time, you won’t be caught dead drinking white wine.”

 

Gilbert must have made a face, because Matz nearly fell out of his seat with laughing.

 

“Why not?” Gilbert demanded, horrified. “What else is there? What do I have for special occasions?”

 

“Ah, ah, ah,” Matz held up a finger, almost touching Gilbert’s lips. “Is that your question?”

 

“…No.”

 

Matz settled back, smirking. “Then I’m sorry, Charlie.” Then, “Beer.”

 

Gilbert squawked and Matz really did slip out of his chair.

 

Gilbert shuffled down to join him. “What happened to the wine industry? Why just beer? Is it the rarest commodity? Is it even made with hops? Do hops exist where you’re from? Is it still alcoholic?”

 

Before Matz could ask again, he added, “Those aren’t the questions I had in mind.”

 

Still giggling, Matz laid an arm over Gilbert’s shoulders and pulled him so his head rested on Matz’s shoulder. “I figured. What was it, then?”

Matz smelled like trees, under the wine. There wasn’t a better word for it, and Gilbert felt almost sorry for it, but that was the fact. He smelled like evergreen needles in the mud and the moss on bark. He smelled like dust and nests and like some wild animal had climbed and taken a nap on him. He smelled like sap that would never wash out of your hems, and stick and stink vaguely of wintergreen forever.

 

He made Gilbert feel so small. He felt like he could hide and be warm forever, surrounded in living and growing smells until the end of time, world-without-end-amen.

 

“Matz, are we friends in your time?”

 

The arm stayed around Gilbert, but Matz leaned back a little to look at Gilbert better. “Of course we are,” he said, eyes wide and bewildered. “Gil, you’re one of my best friends.”

 

Gilbert didn’t know why that was so distressing to Matz. Hoping to lighten the mood, he smiled and teased, “Because I’m sure you’re so popular already.”

 

Matz huffed. “That may be the case; God knows people think I’m a better option than what’s available in a lot of places, but that’s because the bar’s been set so low. But,” he shifted again to look Gilbert straight in the eye, “you’re more than I could have hoped for in a friend, Gil. Our lives are busy as all hell, but we still make time for each other, and you give me a life outside of my work, and…”

 

Matz sort of sighed and slumped against Gilbert, head heavy on Gilbert’s shoulder. “Gil, you make me feel like I’m more than what I do.”

 

Something settled in Gilbert’s chest at that, something warm that could melt at any moment.

 

Thousands of years from now, he and Matz were going to meet. He was going to be Matz’s friend, and Matz was going to be in love with him.

 

Hopefully, Gilbert would deserve it by then.

 

He wanted to make plans with Matz, learn what promises he could keep for the future if they needed them. But tonight, they were both too drunk for that kind of talk.

 

“Matz,” he said softly, holding in his excitement, “I want to talk to you in the morning, when we’re in our right heads. Is that all right?”

 

Matz hummed and squeezed Gilbert one last time before letting go.

 

Gilbert laughed off Matz’s apologies for getting any slobber on him when he was slumped all over him, and they cleaned off the glasses before putting them away.

 

In the morning, Gilbert told himself as they both shuffled off to bed, Gilbert would have more questions. There would be time before Feliks and Toris showed up to have them answered, and when their guests did appear, they would have a fuller story, maybe one with an end in sight.

 

 

 

 _But then came thunder and I heard her say "goodbye"_  
Through tears of wonder, Now I'm alone and my heart wants to know  
Yellow days, where'd you go?

 

 

 

On Christmas Eve in the afternoon, Feliks and Toris arrived to find the chickens out of their coop and Kuno restless. While Zdzislawa and Ksenia went to the animals, they went to the house.

 

Gilbert was sitting alone in the kitchen, a basket of rags on his lap. His eyes were bloodshot, and he didn’t seem to be fully dressed.

 

Dully, he told them, “You just missed him.”

 

 

 

 

 

_Missed calls: 1_

_Message from: Matthew W. at 3:43 PM_

_Hi, Toris. It’s Matt._

_So._

_…I came home, I guess. I owe you and Feliks a big old apology for missing Christmas with you all those years ago._

_God, Arthur has the best and the worst timing I’ve ever—yeah._

_I can’t begin to imagine what I need to say to Gilbert._

_I guess that’s why I’m calling. You and Feliks were there after I… yeah. I need you to tell me what kind of damage I’ve left behind, and what I can do to fix it. If I can fix it._

_Please, please call me back. Thanks._

_Toris Lorinaitis_

_To Matthew Williams_

_12:39 pm (23 hours ago)_

_Hi Matt. I just listened to your voicemail. I’m sorry for not calling you back, I don’t get the best reception, and I think I can communicate this better over writing._

_You were never in trouble. Not with us, and not with Gilbert. There was fear over where you’d gone, but Gilbert reasoned where you’d gone and what had happened. You can imagine how surprised we were when Gilbert came to us before the twenty-first century to say he’d met you a little earlier than he’d thought._

_(Apparently you got your own back by shooting him? I don’t really know what to make of that. I think I’m impressed, in a gruesome way.)_

_After you left, Gilbert took another year before deciding there was no way he could take care of the farm alone anymore, so he finally sold the land and moved to Berlin. It was the best decision he could have made, and we were all relieved._

_How long have you been back? Have you been staying with anyone, or are you home? Have you spoken with Gilbert since?_

_I hope you’re taking care,_

_Toris_

_REPLY_

_5:32 pm_

_Hey Toris. Thanks for the updates (Can I call them that if they were 200 years ago?) I’m glad the move was a positive one for Gil._

_(In my defense, WWI was a wild and crazy time, and Arthur was a terrible enabler, but that’s neither here nor there.)_

_I came back on Christmas Eve at Arthur’s, and I’m still there. Francois and Al came on Christmas Day to stay with us, and they’ve been here since. I haven’t set a date to return to Ottawa, but I should soon. Francois is threatening to relocate us all to Paris for an extended time because somehow that’s going to help. If he makes good on that, please feel welcome to show up and visit. Tell Feliks he’s invited, too, if you think that’s a good idea._

_I don’t know how to talk to Gilbert about this yet. I have to talk with him, I haven’t contacted him since I came back, and it needs to be done. He’s lived with this knowledge for a long time now, so I’ve got no reason to be afraid to talk to him about it._

_REPLY from Matthew Williams_

_5:40 pm_

_(Update: We’re definitely going to be in Paris, from tomorrow and for the next week. The invitation still stands.)_

_REPLY_

_From Toris Lorinaitis_

_7:03 pm_

_Hey Matt. I hope you have an awesome time in Paris. I’ll definitely be in touch about visiting stuff._

_(Feel free to disregard this part of the message. I wouldn’t ask if I wasn’t already a little tipsy and using something as impersonal as email. Besides, you only really knew about things through one letter. When you were there, how did things seem to be between Feliks and me? Did we seem happy at all?)_

_REPLY from Matthew Williams_

_3:16 pm_

_Hi Toris. I’m a little less frustrated at Francois after he’s given us free reign over the city and isn’t hovering._

_(I’m not disregarding that. From what little I knew and saw, you seemed very happy together. Gilbert’s reports and your letter seemed to only confirm it. I hope you’re taking care, man.)_

On the first level of the Eiffel tower is a skating rink, 200 feet above the ground. Several days after Christmas, it’s not as crowded as it had been, but it’s not entirely deserted yet. It does make for some good pictures, though.

 

500 feet away from the base of the tower, a man in a new wool coat is doing just that. It’s plain black with a mock-fur collar. It’s flattering, but a little silly next to his knitted mittens and long hair and heavy jeans with boots.

 

He seems happy to be taking pictures on his own with relatively few tourists around him, all in line to ascend the stairs and float in the air.

 

Six yards behind him is another man with his hair hidden under a knitted bobble hat, wrapped in a leather coat and scarf. He’s got two to-go cups of hot cocoa in his hands, and is dressed for colder weather than what’s really there, but his face is still stark white. He’s a little smaller than the man in the wool coat, and a little scrawnier than he used to be. A little sadder, too, and a lot more frightened.

 

Fortunately, the man in the wool coat turns around first.

 

 

“I think the only good part about you being gone for so long was Toris and Feliks,” said Gilbert.

 

Matt wrinkled his nose. “How?”

 

He would have suggested they find somewhere to sit, but all the benches in the Champs de Mars had a light dusting of snow on them, or were still damp from the snow that had been brushed off.

 

It would be all right; there was something nice about hearing the snow crunching under both their boots.

 

“Well,” said Gilbert, “they seemed to know right away what was going on. Feliks called me and said I should give you hell for the misdirection before he would say what his theory was.”

 

“Fuck, I am sorry about—“

 

Gilbert knocked his shoulder against Matt’s. “No. Nonono. That was me laughing at Feliks.”

 

“But—“

 

“Honestly? I’d have done the same.”

 

That stopped Matt. “Really?” Then, “Why?”

 

Gilbert looked down into his cocoa. “Because knowing the future, or too much of it, has a good chance of really fucking you up.”

 

Matt flinched at that, hunching his shoulders and freezing like that. Gilbert sighed and nudged him again. “Hey. Hey, that wasn’t a knock against you, that— you didn’t say too much. It was—shit.”

 

He huffed and tried again, looping his arm around Matt’s back. “Look, it can either really fuck you up, or give you something to live for, and that’s what I got, all right?”

 

If that was meant to make Matt relax, it failed. He felt his eyes grow wider, looking down at Gilbert, afraid of what revelations would come next.

 

Instead, he got Gilbert’s sunken gaze looking calmly up at him, and for his part, he saw all the lines he had missed; the lines that belonged on the boy he had left behind.

 

Gilbert bit his lip, smiling a little, before he spoke. “I told myself it couldn’t have been you. When you shot me.”

 

“Too early?”

 

“Too much poetic justice. And the wrong specs. And not enough hair,” he explained, grinning and bringing his hand up to ruffle Matt’s hair.

 

Matt laughed at that, feeling the tension leak away and letting his head fall forward and fall against Gilbert’s shoulder.

 

Gilbert’s hand stayed on Matt’s neck as they stood there, swaying slightly and still giggling, slowly sobering.

 

It was Gilbert to break the quiet between them. “God, I was so happy to see you. To know you were one of us, and you weren’t just going to be a blip in time.”

 

“You weren’t even a little angry I’d lied?”

 

Gilbert sighed. “I was all kinds of sad when I realized you had said we weren’t friends until the twenty-first century. I got all bent out of shape over that, because I wanted to talk to you right away. But yeah, I was mad about the shooting thing. You actually hit me.”

 

Matt giggled against Gil’s shoulder. “You hit me, too.”

 

“Get out.”

 

“I got the scar to prove it. Right on my left shoulder.”

 

Gilbert shifted, pulling back a little with wide and frightened eyes. “Oh shit. You lying bastard. Holy shit.”

 

Matt stopped laughing when Gilbert pressed a kiss to the spot, still muttering, “Holy shit.”

 

Heart in his throat at the gesture, Matt let his free arm wrap around Gil’s back, keeping him close. Surprised, Gil looked up at him, and finally there were spots of color on his cheeks.

 

Matt cleared his throat. “Last I saw you, you told me you wanted to talk when we were both in our right heads. Is now okay? Do you remember?”

 

Gilbert’s eyes dropped downwards, turning an even brighter shade of rose. “Yeah. It was, I mean, it was pretty stupid, we don’t—“

 

“Hey,” Matt cut him off gently. “You’ve waited long enough for this. Don’t do that to either of us.”

 

He waited while Gilbert hesitated, until he seemed to nod to himself, happy with what he’d come up with.

 

“Well,” said Gilbert, voice brash but still not looking at Matt, “I was going to ask if you wanted to make plans for when we met in your time, and now that I know we have all kinds of time and then some, it’s not so urgent, so—“

 

“There’s a café not far from here,” Matt interrupted. “It has the best gelato in Paris.”

 

Gilbert looked up at Matt, and at the sight of the marvelous shade of red he’d become, grinned from ear to ear. “Not in all France?”

 

For a moment, Matt felt the glorious serenity of the past and present coming together, and it was nowhere near as wonderful as Gil.

 

He shrugged. “That’s in Cannes, in my humble opinion. And you’re not weirded out about gelato in winter?”

 

Gil pulled back to take Matt’s hand. “We’ll be the only ones in line. Well, come on then.”


End file.
